Chronica (3 page)

The Millennium Club looked good in the noontime sunlight. It had basically remained unchanged in outward appearance since its construction at the end of the 1870s, a beacon of bygone Victorian culture in the neo-digital age. The doorman
greeted them warmly with a British accent but didn't know them. Fortunately, both of their retinas were in the Millennium's databank.

"Looks like a younger version of Hudson from
Downton Abbey
," Max said about the doorman to Sierra, as the two walked up the stairs to the classics library.

"Carson," Sierra said, "from
Downton Abbey
. Hudson's
Upstairs, Downstairs
."

The classics library was now restored from yesterday's work and open to everyone in the club. It had all four of the Aristotle scrolls Sierra and Max had rescued, now translated by Benjamin Jowett and bound in the early 20
^th
century green covers with gold embossing that Sierra had always loved. It had the
Andros
dialogue, right between the
Phaedrus
and
Cratylus
, in the four-volume
Dialogues of Plato
, also translated by Jowett. It had all the books known to have been written by Heron – his
Automata
,
Belopoeica
,
Dioptra
,
Catoptrica
,
Geodesia
,
Geoponica
,
Mechanica
,
Metrica
, and
Pneumatica
– and two thought to have been written by him,
Geometria
and
Stereometrica
. But there was no sign anywhere of Heron's
Chronica
.

There was no sign of Mr. Charles or anyone else they knew, either.

Sierra and Max took the four Aristotle books they had stolen from the ancient flames to a pitted maple table illuminated by a green banker's lamp that Sierra was sure was an original. "They used these in the early days of incandescent lighting to lessen the glare," Sierra said, "but they're beautiful in any case, aren't they?"

Max nodded, distracted.

"What's the matter?" Sierra asked him.

Max took a deep breath. "I think I'll call my father now," he said, "the tension is killing me."

"Of course," Sierra said tenderly and took his hand. "There's a men's room around that corner," she pointed to the far side of the room, "if you want some privacy. Or, we can leave these books for later, and we can go back to the apartment."

"No," Max said. "You should look at the books." He kissed her on the forehead and walked quickly away.

Sierra watched him and fought to keep her emotions in check. She carefully picked up Aristotle's treatise on good government. This edition had been published in 1933, the very year that what was left of Appleton's had merged with the Century Company to make the Appleton-Century Company. The first edition had been published by William Henry Appleton in 1898. That made sense – three years after she and Max had left the scrolls with him in his Wave Hill home, and a year before their beloved friend and protector was to die. Sierra turned the page and caught her breath. Here was something that made no sense at all.

The translator was Benjamin Jowett, who Sierra was sure had died prior to Max's and her visit with Appleton in 1895. She surreptitiously checked Jowett's bio on her phone – mobile devices were forever not allowed in the Millennium – and yeah, she had been right, Jowett had died in 1893. His last work had been a translation of Aristotle's
Politics
, so translating another four treatises by the philosopher fit right in, but how on Earth did Appleton get the manuscripts from 1895 to Jowett before he died in 1893?

Sierra shook her head and smiled. The answer should have been all too obvious to her. Appleton had assured her that he was going to retire from time traveling, and spend his last few years shuttling only between his home in the Bronx and his office on Bond Street in Manhattan, but of course he had changed his mind, traveled to London after she and Max had left in 1895, and taken a Chair back to 1890 or thereabouts to see Jowett–

She became aware that Max was standing next to her. There was something not right, judging by the expression and paleness of his face, but she couldn't tell just what that was.

"I spoke to my father," Max began.

Sierra stood, and got Max into a chair.

"It was a very short conversation," Max continued. "I couldn't say much, after he told me that he had just talked to me yesterday. I didn't want to disrupt his life or whatever the hell is going on in this reality, so I told him I was calling because I needed to check my recollection of something that happened when I was kid. I told him it was for an article I was writing."

"Ok," Sierra said, and put her hand gently on Max's shoulder. "And . . . what did he tell you about your other life here?"

"You and I are happily married and have two kids," Max said, with tears in his eyes and voice.

***

They held each other's hands for a long time, and said nothing.

"Are they an alternate version of us," Max finally said. "Or–"

"They could be actually us, you and me, the human beings sitting right here now at this table, just a little or whatever into our future, and we traveled back to be with your father and got married," Sierra said slowly. "I don't know . . . we need more information from your father."

"What do you think we should do?" Max said. "My father's in California, but I didn't ask him where our alternate Biden-as-2008-President selves may be – we could be right here in New York."

"And we don't want to bump into ourselves and the paradoxes that could hurl in our faces," Sierra completed the thought.

Max nodded. "We could travel to the future – a hundred or even two hundred years from now, to avoid running into ourselves with extended lifespans – or back into the past again."

"Or we could travel to another place right now – like London," Sierra said.

"The future sounds like a little more fun," Max said, with not much of a smile on his face.

Chapter 2

[Rome, 1615 AD]

Roberto Francesco Romolo Bellarmine – consultor of the Holy Office, head of the Roman College, Cardinal, former Archbishop of Capua – turned to his guest with a weary smile. "So, Maffeo, any words of wisdom about Galileo? He'll be in Rome next week, and we have arranged a visit."

Maffeo Barberini, scion of one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in Italy, a Cardinal, too – and one day to be Pope, Bellarmine was sure – removed a grape pit from his tongue. "Only what you already know – he is right."

"Pity more of our people cannot grasp that," Bellarmine said. "The nonsense that has been produced in our own College – that the moon is really pure, perfect, sublimely spherical as Aristotle held, and the mountains and craters seen through Galileo's telescope are but imperfections far below that heavenly invisible surface – you would think this was 615 not 1615 of our Lord, and Rome had just been sacked of all common sense and reason!"

Barberini chuckled. "As I recall, Galileo had a good answer to that feeble argument: if we accept that heavenly surfaces are invisible, then we could just as easily agree that the real surface of the moon, constructed of that same magical substance, actually rises in towering mountains ten times higher than his telescope has seen."

"He is clever," Bellarmine said, unsmiling. "And that is what makes him dangerous. I have tried to convey to him the thought that his mathematics, his observations, may be right – that we may welcome them, rejoice in them, as an improvement over Ptolemy's epicycles – but that the underlying, everlasting truth is just as it ever was."

"And what truth is that?" Barberini asked.

"That is no doubt the question that troubles Galileo," Bellarmine replied, "and why he sometimes gives the appearance of accepting our arguments, yet in his truest soul rejects them. He knows that we ourselves are unsure of just what the underlying, everlasting truth really is."

"As we have good reason to be," Barberini said. "But that is our burden – not the world's. And part of our burden is to keep the world – not only the physical world, but the souls of its people – stable."

"Which brings us back to the problem of Galileo," Bellarmine said, sadly. "His theories, his publications, presented to the world without our mediation, cannot help but sow confusion in the common soul."

"Have you implied to him anything at all of the Instruments?" Barberini asked, as delicately as he could manage.

"No, I have not. Therein lies the road that was taken with Giordano Bruno. And it did no good – it did worse than no good. In the end . . ." Bellarmine could not bring himself to finish.

"In the end, our Holy Church had to kill Giordano Bruno," Barberini said. "Still, the result need not be the same with Galileo. He is a different kind of man – more practical, more of a scientist than a mystic like Bruno. He may see a different kind of lesson in the Instruments."

"No," Bellarmine insisted. "I will not have it."

Barberini permitted himself the slightest of smiles.
 

***

"You are a stubborn man," Bellarmine said to Galileo.

"Stubbornness has nothing to do with this, Your Eminence," Galileo replied. "Truth is what this is about. I can say 'the Earth does not move,' as easily as the next man. But if, in truth, the Earth does move, then it matters not what I say. For in time others will make the same observations as I, and they will say that the Earth does move. And where will our Holy Church be then?"

Bellarmine was at least heartened to hear Galileo refer to the Church as 'our,' even if this plural possessive pronoun likely came with some measure of sarcasm on the astronomer's tongue. "You are stubborn because you assume that future telescopes, perhaps with power far greater than yours, will see the same things in the heavens as your device," Bellarmine answered. "But how can you be sure of that?"

"I am not sure of that," Galileo said. "Devices change, and so then does the knowledge they produce."

"Precisely," Bellarmine said. "The only thing constant in this world is the Lord's word, and the only constant path towards that is the Church's teaching."

"Yes, but if observations conducted through device A contradict the Church's teaching, then even though device A may be improved upon at some future time by device B, ought we not at least consider the evidence presented by device A at this time?"

Bellarmine looked away. "Devices," he said at last. "Believe me, there are more devices in this Universe than you with or without your telescope have ever imagined."

Galileo squirmed. "Are you referring to the Instruments? Do you seek to intimidate me by intimations of your Instruments of Torture?"

Bellarmine said nothing.

"I am a weak vessel," Galileo continued. "I might well sooner lie about what I know to be true than be subjected to your torture. But what would that gain you in the end? Do you suppose you can torture the whole world – impose your will on every human eye that looks at the heavens through a lens?"

"I was hoping you might be persuaded, not by torture, but by reason itself, to see the dangers in the way you proselytize your theories," Bellarmine replied. "I was hoping that once so convinced, we might even enlist you to help in our cause – explain to the world that, although science always progresses, always changes, the soul and its place in the Universe remains constant, remains forever, and our Holy Church is the only reliable guide to that."

"Forgive me, Eminence – but I fear it is the Church that is treading on the domain of science here, not vice versa, in your insistence that the Earth is the unmoving center of the Universe. And you have no evidence that the Copernican theory, which my telescopic observations support, is wrong."

Bellarmine sighed. "Suppose I showed you evidence."
 

Galileo scoffed. "Where, in the Holy Bible?"

"No," Bellarmine said very quietly. "In Instruments perhaps ultimately not unlike your telescope – Instruments that offer vision far deeper than your telescope. Dangerous Instruments – far more dangerous than your telescopes." He wrung his hands. "I had hoped not to have to speak to you of this. But I see there is no other way."

Galileo shuddered. "You are speaking to me again of torture? Of burning out my eyes?"

"No, not of torture – at least, not of physical torture, I assure you," Bellarmine replied. "I would invite you to accompany me on a journey."

"To the torture room?" Galileo asked, still not convinced.

"To the city of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle," Bellarmine replied. "To Athens."
 

***

Galileo complained every hour he was awake, which was most of the seven-day voyage by sea from Rome to Athens. "I don't like this kind of travel at this time of year," he said to Bellarmine after he had thrown up his latest meal overboard, "but I fear my life depends upon it."

"I am bringing you to Athens to learn," Bellarmine replied. "You of all people should welcome that."

Their ship entered the Port of Athens without incident. It bustled with international trade under Ottoman rule. Galileo was still complaining. "The Turks have telescopes, but to them they are just toys. They have no idea what they are looking at when they point them at the sky."

The two disembarked with Bellarmine's servant Ruggero – a priest about thirty with the build of a Swiss Guardsman who had accompanied them on the voyage. He carried Bellarmine's and Galileo's belongings, as well as a number of knives.

The weather was mild. "Our destination is about ten minutes on foot," Bellarmine said.

Galileo nodded. "I would welcome a walk on solid earth after all of those days at sea."

[Athens, 1615 AD]

They arrived at Hakam's coffee house about fifteen minutes later. Galileo had stopped several times to divest his sandals of pebbles. "They serve a wonderful heated beverage they call
kaweh
– which means 'vigor'," Bellarmine explained. "The taste is delicious, the aroma is from heaven, and it will indeed strengthen your constitution and sharpen your intellect."

Galileo smiled fully for the first time in a week.